THE LAST MOMENTS OF PAPA H (flash fiction)

July 2, 1961 at the Finca Vigia, San Francisco de Paula, Cuba.

In one breath he thought "Cubans -- how I love these people..."

And in the next, Hemingway contemplated an act so very indiscreet.

Even with his Pulitzer and Nobel Prizes and a life so accomplished, he felt abandoned by almost everything and everyone around him.

Wanting a farewell drink, his nervous elbow knocked the last bottle of whiskey to the ground, shattering it into a beautiful jigsaw puzzle of glass.

Almost time, he stared at a lifetime of photographs, kissing the photos of his kids and wife.

He then turned to the Boss & Co. shotgun he bought at Abercrombie & Fitch and before he pulled the trigger, noticed what an elegant weapon it was.

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REAL DRINKS FOR REAL MEN

VIA REGRETFUL MORNING: Real men drink beer and whiskey. 'Nuff said. When you go to a bar, however, beer all the time can get a bit boring, and you may be looking for something like a strong mixed drink. However, being the manly man you are, you’ve never ordered a mixed drink before, and don’t actually know what drinks are safe to order without risking penile deflation. Worry not, here's a few drinks the manly man.

Click HERE.

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THE USHERETTE (flash fiction)

Lately, I've been inspired by artist Edward Hopper and after writing a Six for his "Automat" painting, I figured I would try my hand at this amazing painting as well.

The pictures were changing and the cigar-chomping studio chief told Sally she was yesterday's goods and they wouldn't be needing her on-screen anymore.

In a daze, she wandered down Hollywood Boulevard to Grauman's and after crying her eyes out, manager Sully Blizter offered her an ushering gig.

"Don't thank me, kid," he said chomping some Sen-Sen. "Thank the dead grunt who ain't comin' back..."

When Japan surrendered a day or so later, it dawned on her that the only job she could get was wearing a dead man's pants.

As she waited for each flicker to end, Sally found it agonizing to listen to the echoes of those starlets - many of whom she'd known - tango with the likes of Bogie, Clift and Raft.

After eight years of listening to hundreds if not thousands of pictures, her crackerjack ear for dialogue had been perfected and as a result, Sally got hired (by the same cigar-chomper) to write on a team for some new medium called television.

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FAKER: MAYOR OF NOWEHERE (flash fiction)

Geread was tired of faking it any longer.

Somehow he had managed to get himself elected mayor because, of all things, he'd won the grand prize on Jeopardy's Tournament of Champions so, at the time, people thought he was pretty damn smart.

Unfortunately, his local community was having a hard time believing him.

So here he was, holed up in his office, consumed by unnecessary knowledge of foliage, rare birds and Elizabethan poetry as he paced day in and day out without a frikkin clue.

Geread leaned against the glass and looked out.

A year and change after the election, he knew he'd failed and the only thing that would make him feel better was filling out an online application to Wheel of Fortune.

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WOULD-BE WIDOW (flash fiction)

I have a cold. Massive insomnia. Can't breathe, Stuffed. On stupid meds that are keeping me up... This is the result.

Josephine and her husband Bill Cummings were married only a year before Uncle Sam tapped his shoulder.

The morning he shipped out for basic training, he walked the plank in 'Ra-Ra' fashion and told her, "No matter what happens, keep going... We don't wanna speak German."

After two numb years, her daily routine had become almost commonplace - at work by 7 a.m. and in bed 13 hours later, six days a week.

One night after another laborious day at the textile mill there was certified note from the U.S. War Department stapled to her tenement door instead of a monthly love letter from Bill.

It said they would be back at 9 a.m. the next morning.

Hours later at the Automat, Josephine stared down at her coffee fighting to stay awake because she couldn't come to terms with the fact that she would wake up a widow.

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THE RIGHT PLACE AT THE RIGHT TIME (flash fiction)

The Drama Critic hopped aboard his 5 p.m. Manhattan-bound bus just as he did for the past 17 years. This time, though, his usually-boring trip home was different because ousted mayor Julio Taft was sitting next to him.

The guy seated in back of the Drama Critic leaned forward and with just enough spittle to make the day more annoying said, “Yo bub, that’s Julio Taft…”

The Drama Critic nodded and not thinking much of it, decided to chat up the former politico who was currently awaiting sentencing for a slew of corruption and graft charges.

Between doozy proclamations like, “They can’t prove that I did what they say I did” and “You’ll never see Julio Taft behind bars,” the Drama Critic started taking mental notes – a talent perfected after hundreds of long performances in dark theaters.

As the ol’ mayor hopped off of the creaky 71 muttering proudly, the Drama Critic stared at him and wondered how Taft would feel reading about this on Page One tomorrow morning.

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HERE’S HOPING GIZMO WON’T BECOME MINCEMEAT (poem)

HERE’S HOPING GIZMO
WON’T BECOME MINCEMEAT

Walking in, I noticed
the sign. The sad sign.
A desperate plea.
And sort of hopeless.
But off all places,
I thought. A bar?
My bar? This bar.
Who would post a lost
dog notice on the door?
Fuckers in this joint
wouldn't know nothing
from a lost dog.
Take a look inside:
We’re three or four rungs
above skid row.
But forget all that.
Out of respect
for this Xeroxed
'lil guy staring
at me, I read the
post; got
the lowdown.
Squishy face;
Answers to 'Gizmo';
frantic owners
begging to help
them ‘find our
little guy please’;
the whole nine;
But God, this dog looked
so douchey. Sort of like
he prance around with a
ribbon and a little bell.
Wandering alone
around here, he'd be a
goner for sure.
Mincemeat. But,
like everything else,
life goes on.
Three hours, two shots,
four beers and one slice
later I leave and
make my way home.
As I walk inside, I hear
a dog bark somewhere
and I swear to Jesus
I think of Gizmo. And
then I think
he’s a goner.
Mincemeat for sure.

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BOOZE ADS ON TV GET YOU EFFED UP QUICKER

FACTOID: "Young men who watched the movie American Pie with accompanying commercials for alcohol were more apt to grab a beer or glass of wine from the refrigerator, compared to those who watched a movie without the drinking prompts."

Here's a study that proves this...

While we're on the subject... Nuthin' like using a cartoon to sell hooch.

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GREAT CHEAP BEER

This gem comes courtesy of Men's Style:

Chuck Buk would approve of this... It's no shock that nothing tastes better at the end of a long, hard day than cheap beer. Okay, scratch that—just about anything tastes better than cheap beer. But for various reasons—price, convenience, working-class pride (even, or especially, if you're middle-class and in art school)— sometimes nothing beats a budget brew.

Here are some favorites — and in an era in which Budweiser is partly owned by Belgians, you'll be happy to know that all these picks are made right here in the good 'Ol U.S. of A.

http://men.style.com/theupgrader/living/hotlist/blue-collar-beers

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WHEN COOL WAS KING: WHOSE SHOT IS IT? (flash fiction)

They say a picture is worth a thousand words. In this case, 91… This is of my favorite candid Rat Pack pics (I have many). Here’s what I see:

“Whose shot is it?” Lawford asked.

Dino, just along for the ride, looked around confused and, as usual shrugged his shoulders with that cool aloofness.

They were all a bit dazed today since things went a bit late last night. On the “suggestion” of Frank, they all caught the 6 a.m. show at the Sahara’s Casbar Lounge to check out some new comic named Don Rickles.

“Hey Smokey…” Frank asked. “Is it your shot?”

“Beats me, baby…” Sammy said. “My ass is goin’ to meet Kim Novak…”

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LOCKWOOD AT THE POOL (flash fiction)

James Lockwood had never been to Vegas.

Being that he just got hired at his firm - an outfit that peddled all sorts of tin foil - he’d been travelling more now than he ever was used to.

So here he was in Sin City hoping to score an account for the hotel’s pillow chocolates and, truth be told, all he had on his mind was a little cabana R&R.

At the hotel swimming pool he marveled at the grand scale of the area from the landscaped detail of the foliage to the majestic architecture of the resort that towered over crispy sunbathers.

And lets not forget those little chippies, dressed like little swamis serving cocktails with their bejeweled turbans and sexy saris.

While most men would bask in the notion of chatting them up, Lockwood just closed the drape to his cabana and opened the dorkiest fantasy novel that ever was.

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NOIR DREAMS (poem)

NOIR DREAMS
I imagine snapping the brim
of a non-existent fedora after
I find the Benny Goodman
tape somewhere it shouldn’t be.

Only then do I shut my eyes.

After a moment, I check the
father’s pocket watch and
hope the shirt-tail is properly
tucked. I do this much after
the fact but nevermind that.

I’m ready.

As I prowl Sunset amidst a sea
of Caddie fins and crackly neon,
the Benny Goodman stops and
reality socks me in the snooker
hard with a Louisville Slugger.

Here in The City of Night, I’m
chasing noir dreams that deep
down I know are pure figments.

I long for palm trees and
all I get are dead shrubs;



I yearn for Ava Gardner or
Betty Bacall – or some grand
dame with killer eyebrows,
a quick wit and a thirst for
the good life and all I see
is Sally who looks like
lunchmeat on a Thursday;


I want to dine at the Brown Derby
and all I can afford is the cardboard
they peddle at 3 Brothers in Venice;

I need a double-breasted Zoot Suit yet
all I can muster are premium Dickies
straight outta the Sears Wishbook;

I want spit-shined wingtips,
black and white, and ready to
kill roaches and I get these
busted up Chuck Taylors;

I salivate for single-barrel scotch
and I all get is this bathtub gin
with a kruddy Pabst Blue Ribbon chaser.

I look around for George Raft on his
way to the commissary and all
I see are

the tattooed,
the pierced,
the depraved

and I shake my head as to where
we’re all going and wonder what
happened to the glamorous life?

I’ll never know cuz I never lived it.

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THE GIRL ACROSS THE WAY (poem)

THE GIRL ACROSS THE WAY
I’m sitting in this lame eatery,
watching her laughing with
a couple of friends.
She’s sitting in the middle
talking to the both of them,
flicking her hair. The thing
I love is that she smiles
as if she knows friggin'
nothing about the world.
I find it cute in this
particular setting.

A few minutes later,
the bartender gives her
a drink, but from
where I’m sitting, I can’t
tell what it is.
Perhaps a beer? Hmmm.
She doesn’t strike me
as the white zin type.
Stay away from them.
But God, this one's cute.

From where I sit, she can’t
exactly tell that I’m taking
it all in - her gestures and
watching her tell the stories
she’ s sharing with the other two.
I can’t read lips either,
so I’m useless on that
front. All I can do is
enjoy my meal and envision
what could be for a mere
63 minutes with this girl across
the way. And for the
time being, my life
is completely different.

But then, after what seems
like a lifetime,
the waiter arrives with
my food and fucks it all up.
It isn’t long before I go back
to ‘yessing’ the wife.

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OH NO...

The US alcohol market has seen a steep decline in sales and the market has rose the least in the last eight years. Most states are looking directly to hit the alcohol industry and it is estimated that the retail price of alcoholic beverages might increase by as much as 2%. The alcohol industry however isn’t taking this situation lightly.

Read more HERE.

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THANKS TO THE WEB, POETRY IS ON FIRE

Via The Telegraph: Poetry, one of mankind's oldest art forms, is enjoying a resurgence due to the internet, according to the writers themselves.

Rather than killing it off, modern technologies like email, social networking sites such as Facebook and online media players are helping poets reach new audiences.

The grassroots scene is now growing, with live poetry readings becoming more popular and more poets getting their own pamphlets published.

Competitions are also booming: the number of entries for the Foyle Young Poets Award more than doubling from 2003 to 2008 to almost 12,000.

To read more, click HERE.

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WHEN PIGS FLY (flash fiction)

In the land of blues and whiskey, where long necks live and bourbon fills the musty air, there was something ghastly at hand. In the midst of all this beauty known as the devil's music, I never expected to see a bowling pin and a pear do the shuffle.

Both beyond drunk, she was in that state of almost ecstasy with the creepy dance stare and he was shimmying a ridiculous horny jive, thinking he might actually have a chance - you know, that thing that every guy hopes for.

It's what keeps us combing our hair and tucking in our shirts, puffing out the chest. But him? Even though he is a musician and all, he's beyond the chance.

Maybe if he flew.

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